Finite
by Demeter1
Summary: Temperance and the means to an end. Severus Snape leaves Dumbledore and Harry for a much more dangerous path than anyone will know. He is going to war. To the darkness.


**"Finite"**

**Demeter**

**Warnings**: Takes place after GoF when Dumbledore asks if Snape's 'ready'. After reading that several times, I literally had the shivers. Severe Severus Snape angst. Also known as SS

**Disclaimer**: All rights and privileges to Harry Potter are trademarks and property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Brothers, and associated parties. The author claims no legal responsibility for problems associated with using this work. The story, the relationships, and original characters within the fic are copyright of the author Demeter

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_Ready?_

Snape felt something sickeningly cold twist at his stomach. Emphatic, Dumbledore had been with the idea. There had been no other choice for Snape to even contemplate. He owed this to Dumbledore… he owed this to everyone he had murdered.

_The unending pain…_

Snape snarled at the unbidden thought that crept like a vile mist through his thoughts. He felt his hand clench together in an involuntary spasm, tight enough to leave bloody crescents in the palms. He would have very much preferred to lose his calm in the privacy of his chambers, if not in hell itself.

He stumbled.

He bit at his lip savagely. He would *not* lose control. He needed to stay sane and keep his thoughts on what was to come. What he would have to do in order to keep Hogwarts safe.

Hogwarts had been his haven since the first time he saw the barn owl flying toward him with an invitation to attend the school. He had never felt more relief than that moment when he realized he wouldn't have to go to Durmstrang or any other school. The schools his 'parents' picked.

Snape convulsed.

He avoided thinking about his 'parents' as much as possible. They only brought ugly memories and hateful thoughts. And even though they might have benefited him right now, they were useless in the most.

_Ready?_

He would never be ready. To return to the pit of hell after almost fifteen years of trying to forget the darkness and insanity. He had entered the trust of Voldemort, of the Death Eaters, only to realize who… *what* they were.

Damnation itself.

There had been no other plausible choice. He fled to Dumbledore, wanting nothing more than to die that night. He had literally begged on his knees for the Headmaster to end his miserable life. Pleaded for one last act of mercy even when he had given so little.

And Dumbledore had refused.

Again.

Why? Why? Why didn't he just let him die? The headmaster had been adamant, gentle, soft even. He had insisted that Snape get up and listen to his plan. A plan that would rid the world of Voldemort if successful. A plan that would put him in the greatest peril possible.

But the plan would redeem him in part, restore some of his soul.

Dumbledore had looked at him with such compassion… Snape couldn't refuse. He remembered all the people who had screamed and shrieked their pain… even when in the end they all went silent.

Snape shuddered.

And with fear and the utmost loathing in his being, he returned to the den. Waited on Voldemort. Reported information for Dumbledore. And in the end, the person who had gotten all the credit was Harry bloody Potter.

Severus managed to make it to his bedroom located within the dungeons. He collapsed into the chair, staring into the darkness, his thoughts dull. No one would ever appreciate him for what he did.

And in a way, he didn't care about that, no matter how obsessed with getting the Order of The Merlin he seemed.

Because amid that fancy satin and silk, it was only a piece of decorated heavy fabric.

It meant nothing.

That award still didn't come close to signifying all the people who had died, who had perished for his foolishness. The gaudy piece only gilded their horrible deaths with glitter and gold.

He shrieked and swept all the glassware of his shelves. All he could do to alleviate the guilt was destroy everything in his domain, everything that said he was someone even close to human. Snape refused to let the tears come. He had no tears left. He was *certain* about that.

Collapsing on the dungeon floor against the wall, he stared blankly at the chaotic mess he had managed to create in only a few minutes of his time. Snape suddenly snorted with derision. Black and Potter had always said that he was such a mess already that it was a wonder he was such a neat freak.

And he had been.

In a strange way, he remembered that clearly. Revulsion must be really strong.

Unbidden, his right hand came up to caress his forearm. The pain had subsided a while ago. He would need a plausible excuse for why he hadn't appeared at the moment Voldemort called.

_Disobedience shall suffer my wrath…_

There was no excuse. He would just have to snivel appropriately and beg for forgiveness. Like what he usually did. But maybe Voldemort didn't even notice his absence.

He gave another snort.

His black eyes distanced. The Cruciatus curse was not as bad as everyone made it out to be. Really. The physical pain, the lancing of a thousand finely-tuned knives, the shredding of the flesh with nails, the breaking of the bones, crushing like fragile glass.

A person could ignore what _Crucio_ caused after a while.

_Pain is to death what death is to pain…_

Someone had told him that a long time ago. So long he couldn't remember who or when. Memories tend to fade as time passed. That was what defined human as human. They forget what's dangerous for them, what will hurt. They will continue to hit their heads on the same nail over and over, each time determined to believe it wouldn't hurt like the last.

It was the same with Voldemort. Only fifteen years. Only a decade and a half since the reign of terror had thrown the entire community into a mess. Fear of the unknown. Fear for loved ones. Fear of dying.

And now, simply because He had disappeared for a few years, the idiots were settling into complacency, allowing the treacherous thoughts of 'You-Know-Who's dead!'. Voldemort was far from dead. Snape sometimes wondered if the evil-incarnate-man could even die…

And they had forgotten that Voldemort had simply hid, not died.

_"We've had precious little to celebrate these past years…"_

They hadn't, but it had been a poor excuse, thinly veiled by the fact that no one, absolutely *no one* could be killed by a baby boy. They had all taken to the idea, so tickled that one of the most terrifying wizards in the annals of history could be killed by a baby, they had accepted his death, simply, forgetting all those who had died because of _Voldemort._

Fools.

"We're all fools."

Severus Snape, Potions Master of the School of Wizardry, Hogwarts, banged his head softly against the wall of his classroom and started weeping. He had lied. He still could cry.

Because in the end, really, they all ended up as fools.

Even him.

**- fin -**


End file.
